Let's Go Back to the Start
by Sky-Blue44
Summary: Harry has always suffered from insomnia; this leads to a lot of thinking in the middle of the night. Or, in which Harry attempts to remember when this whole thing he has with Draco really started.


The title for this work is drawn from Coldplay's "The Scientist." This was previously uploaded on LJ. Enjoy!

Warnings: Genderbend, Slash (M/M and F/F), Lots of AU, Character Death, off-screen underage sex, nudity, heavy touching

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**Let's Go Back To the Start**

Harry Potter sometimes likes to wonder when all of _this_ began.

He knows that it couldn't have been that fateful Halloween night that the rest of his life seems to revolve around so imperfectly. Somehow, that night seems to have very little to do with its existence; it may have affected timing or created problems…but somehow Harry thinks that incredibly little could have stopped it, even a Dark Lord armed with a killing curse.

He also knows that it perhaps has very little to do with their first meeting in Madame Malkin's. He isn't quite sure if it had begun before or after that day; he simply doesn't know

_Let's go back to the start, where it all began…_

_But when did it all begin?_

**_Harry: Age 4_**

_Harry cannot remember this, but perhaps… _

Harry struggled to keep up on his short legs behind his aunt and cousin. They were out shopping, as his aunt was _finally _responding to Dudley's pleas to get him some new toy; it was only after two days, but even a single minute seemed like an _eternity_ around them. Harry didn't much care; he knew nothing was coming for _him_. Nothing _ever_ seemed to.

_"Boy!_" Aunt Petunia shrieked. "_Come on_!" She was pushing his whale-like cousin in a carriage, but Harry was forced to try to keep up on his own. Harry ran to her, panting. She did not slow her pace. He managed to keep up with her for a few short moments, before he noticed something. He stopped and stared.

There, standing outside on the sidewalk, was a boy. He appeared to be only slightly taller than Harry, but seemed to be his age. He was facing away from him, but that was not what caught Harry's eye; it was his fine, silver hair.

_So pretty…_Harry thought.

The boy seemed to notice eyes on him, and turned. Their eyes met. Harry moved to go to the other boy before he felt a hand grab his arm, wrenching it back and up, stopping him in his tracks.

"_Where do you think you're going, boy?_" Aunt Petunia yelled.

The other boy's eyes widened. Harry merely shut his eyes in embarrassment.

Aunt Petunia then noticed what Harry had been looking at, and gasped. She dragged him away, muttering about "freaks," and some lady or flower named "Lily." Harry never noticed the boy's clothing, which Aunt Petunia apparently disliked. Harry wasn't quite sure why she did though.

They left the shopping area immediately, and went home, much to Dudley's anger. On the car ride home, Dudley showed his dismay through his screaming and his kicking of the back of the front seat savagely. Harry said quietly, his mind filled with images of grey eyes and silver hair.

When they returned to 4 Privet Drive, Aunt Petunia hurried them into the house. She left the cousins alone in the front hall, Dudley fuming, Harry thinking of the mystifying boy.

These thoughts would be instantly forgotten when Dudley nearly broke his nose for making them return home from the store early.

_…but perhaps not. After all, if it was, Harry would probably be able to remember it._

_But here, it is possible…_

**_Harry__: Not Born Yet, Year: 1410_**

Princess Draconia sat at her vanity as her maidservant Harriet tended to her hair.

Draco only trusted Harry, and for good reason. Her father's court was a gossip mill that could (and often did) turn deadly. Draconia had a temper (although she was actually a skilled politician), which often got her in a lot of trouble. Harry was often able to shield her from that while still giving her an outlet for her frustrations.

Well, all except for one.

The princess stood, her fancy, blue dress swishing around her legs. Her corset was pulled tight, her breasts pushed up and together. Her toes were pinched by her slippers. She was incredibly uncomfortable.

There were days when she envied Harry, just a little. Harry, after all, was a servant; she wore comfortable clothes and shoes, at least in comparison. She looked so good doing it too.

Harry smiled at her and said, "You'll do."

Draco chuckled. "I sure hope so, as hard as it is to breathe."

Harry frowned, "Do you need to be loosened a bit?"

"No," Draconia replied. "Harry, I'll be fine.

"Please be," Harry said.

Draco kissed Harry on both cheeks, causing them both to blush. "Ah…" Draconia said. "I heard that that is how women in my fiancé's country say good-bye."

Harry smiled shyly. "Well, then, I suppose I must do the same." Cheeks burning, she did so.

"Well," Draco said. "I'm leaving. Ta-ta!"

"Farewell!" Harriet said with a wave.

Draco rushed out the door, her shoes clacking on the stone floors. When she felt that she was far enough away, she hid behind a pillar, and slid down it bit, blushing. _Oh my Lord!_ she exclaimed in her mind. _Her lips! But they will never be mine! _Then she remembered what she had said in farewell. '_Ta-ta?'_ she thought. _'Ta-ta'? Harry will see right through that!_

Little did she know that Harry was not even thinking about her words. She had fallen to her knees back in Draco's chambers, blushing, as she cursed Draco's fiancé and her devilish lips and smile.

_No, not here either…perhaps this was too long ago…_

_Something more recent…_

**_Harry: Age 11_**

A hand was stretched out for him, promising "the right kind" of friends.

Harry did not take it.

_No…not quite…_

_Here…_

**_Harry: Not Born Yet, Year: 1883_**

Lord Potter sat in a dusty London carriage with his dear wife, Lady Potter, nee Malfoy. The driver was navigating them quickly through the dusty and smoggy London streets. Recently married, the two sat next to each other, something that would have been frowned upon before the day. They sat, hand in hand.

Lord Potter loved his wife more than anything (as she did him), which was clear, even to the servants. They could read the love in every expression. The epitome of a loving husband, he did everything he could to help her.

The lower maids often gossiped about Lord and Lady Potter when they first came into service. "Why is Lord Potter hiding Lady Potter away?" they whispered. "Is she like Rapunzel? Is she insane?" Their hands would flutter about, as if trying to grasp at the gossip.

However, they were quickly put down by the upper maids, the best of which helped serve Lady Potter. "You would do best not to gossip. However, no," they would whisper severely, often shaking their fingers at them in retribution. "She is not insane. Nor is Lord Potter hoarding her. She is simply very frail physically."

_But not mentally, _would go unsaid. Lady Potter was an often scathing and sarcastic, but kind and intelligent, lady to serve. They even occasionally were privy to Lord and Lady Potter's banter, which showed their love ever more clearly.

Lady Potter, of course, knew all about this gossip. After all, she may be frail, but she could still play politics with the best of them. It, of course, wasn't exactly _politics…_

…but, for a bored woman, it would do.

Lord Potter squeezed Lady Potter's gloved hand, and smiled at her. The two had gone for a spring walk in the park, Lady Potter holding her parasol classily. They had had a lot of fun that afternoon, even having a small picnic for themselves. That was, until Lady Potter had begun to swoon from exhaustion. They had hurried to the carriage and set off for home.

Lord Potter had not wanted to come to London for the season, knowing that the polluted air and the strain of the season would tire Lady Potter, especially with her condition. However, Lady Potter had insisted. She would _not _be treated as an invalid. She _would_ participate in society. It had been what she had been raised for; she might go crazy without it.

So, Lord Potter had had no choice but to agree. After all, he knew that there would be no stopping her anyway.

A Malfoy _always _gets her way, after all. Even if they don't, a Potter sure does. Lady Potter just happened to be both. Really, Lord Potter stood no chance.

The coach stopped in front of their London home, and Lord Potter got out first. He held out his hand for his wife to go down the stairs. Balancing herself on her parasol, she stood, and took a few steps towards the stairs going out of the coach.

Then, the world began to spin around her and she began to sway on her feet. Luckily, her husband noticed, for he lifted her, and, handing her parasol to a servant, carried her upstairs.

"I didn't need your help, Potter," his wife said into his chest.

"You're welcome, Malfoy," Lord Potter replied. He happily carried her upstairs.

The maids on the ground floor all began chattering the second it became evident that the heads of the household were out of earshot. The housekeeper, Miss Granger, exchanged worried glances with the butler, Mr. Zabini, the coachman (her fiancé, Mr. Weasley), and the lady's maid (Miss Parkinson).

After this, the four jumped into action. Miss Granger began shooing the maids. Mr. Zabini began chastising the male staff, telling them to get back to work. Mr. Weasley went outside to tend to the coach. Miss Parkinson went upstairs to await Lady Potter's call for her assistance.

They busied themselves, because there was no use in just standing around. It was no use anyhow, even talking about it.

After all, Lady Potter only had a year left to live. They all dreaded that day.

_Not back in this time either…if this was anything but a dream at all…_

_But perhaps here…_

**_Harry: Not Born Yet, Year: 1776_**

The next morning, Draco was to go off to join the militia.

Harry (short for Harriet) was prepping his meals for the next day and a half; it was a long way to where the army (or whatever General Washington's forces were being called now) was stationed. She had to make him four meals…at _least._

Lost in thought, she did not notice the footsteps behind her. Warm arms wrapped around her waist. She refused to lean into the chest behind her though. "Draco…" she warned, tensing in his arms. "I have _work_ to do before you leave tomorrow." She didn't want him to let go. However, she had to get this done. "Why don't you go look in on the children?" she suggested.

He kissed the top of her head, rubbing his face into her messy curls. "All right," he said. She knew that he did not want to fight with her, not now. He walked away, going up to the second story of their small home. She heard him deftly climb the uneven steps. She sighed sadly, and rubbed her eyes. She then set about her final tasks for the evening.

When Harry was finished, she climbed the stairs after him. She looked in on him in the children's room, and her eyes softened.

Draco stood over the twin's bed. Annie and Jon were three now, but they often shared the same bed due to nightmares (Jon always said that Annie climbed in with _him_, but Harry knew that he climbed in with her just as much, if not more). They were curled up together, like two cherubs. Draco stood over them, a soft smile on his face, as he pulled their blanket over their shoulders. Their children curled closer in together

Harry went into their bedroom, and changed into her prettiest white nightgown; it was his last night home, after all. She took her hair out of her braid, and began brushing it, working out all of the tangles that had occurred throughout the day.

A hand wrapped around hers and gently took the brush from her. Draco began brushing her hair gently. It was a tender moment, so much so that Harry wanted to cry.

Draco placed the brush on the table when he was finished and sat on the bed. He opened his arms, and Harry flew into them, knocking them both breathless and laughing. They pushed their lips together.

Later that night, after Draco had fallen asleep, Harry lay awake, crying into his chest.

The next morning, they held each other in a passionate embrace before Draco left. A child hung on each of her hands as Draco walked away.

The next two years were full of worry and pain. The children grew, and Harry sent Draco letters, doing her best not to be too sad or maudlin. She got letters from her husband, and she read the "family content" out loud to her children. Those letters (and the more private ones) were set aside in a box.

Sometimes, when she was feeling particularly sad and lonely, she took the letters out, and tried to smell his scent on them, and ran her fingers over his neat script. Then, she would read them all, a thousand times. She often cried at the more romantic ones (that was something that she found that she couldn't tell her husband right away – not until they were withered and grey. That was when he confessed the same – unmanly – weakness. Harry and Draco strangely did not feel as stupid as they had then).

Draco would not return for nearly two years, but when he did, Harry was waiting for him.

She was in the kitchen when her children went to go answer a knock on the door. Then, she heard the screams of "Mama! Mama!" and ran to them. There stood her Draco, holding both of the children.

They were older, and Harry could see how tired he was (and him how tired she was). But he was still hers. And she was still his. That much could never change.

She ran to him.

_No..._

**_Harry: Age 16_**

Two pairs of lips pressed against each other.

Hands slid over fevered skin, touching places no other had been.

Harry's mouth was latched onto Draco's neck, sucking and biting. Draco keened under him, scratching his back. Draco had already attacked Harry's collar bone, red marks adorning his body. Clothes were torn from bodies.

The two rivals pressed their bodies together as if trying to cut the other and then bleed into each other.

Until the lines between "enemy" and "lover" began to blur into nothingness.

_No…_

**_Harry: Age 1_**

_Harry cannot remember this either…_

Harry sat on his toy broomstick, whooshing about happily. He loved flying.

Another baby boy, about his age, flew over as well. He had silver hair and eyes.

They stared at each other for a moment, before pushing each other off their brooms. Their bottoms hit the ground with a dull thud. They both began to cry on the ground.

Some things never change.

_No..._

_Harry: Not Born Yet, Year: 1210_

The two samurai sat side by side, looking up at the moon. They were drinking sake, and had waxed poetic for several hours. Now, though, they were silent, simply gazing up at the moon descending into the western horizon.

The next night, they would be dead, but they did not know that yet.

Their hands touched beneath the stars.

_No…Will I ever find it? Will I ever **know?**_

Harry is sitting up in bed, leaning against the headboard. He knows that it is far too late to be thinking of such things, but insomnia has always been his greatest problem. He looks blankly into the darkness of their bedroom. His chest is bare, the white sheets having pooled in his lap.

Harry feels eyes on him, so he looks down next to him. There is Draco, blearily staring up at him through the darkness. His hair is mussed with sleep, his sliver eyes cloudy. His chest is pale next to the tangled, white sheets in the moonlight.

"Oh," Harry says apologetically. "Did I wake you up?"

"Yes," Draco yawns. "The loudness of your thoughts woke me."

Harry smiles down at him, and threads a hand through his silver hair, "Go back to sleep."

Draco untangles his head from Harry's seeking hand, and sits up, a sliver of pale, delectable arse revealing itself for just a moment, then disappearing, as Draco slides up next to him. He rests his back on the deep mahogany headboard next to Harry. "What are you thinking about at this time of night? One isn't supposed to think about much of _anything_ at 2 AM."

Harry supposes he is right, but does not respond.

Draco puts a hand on Harry's sheet covered thigh. Warmth bleeds through the cloth. "What? Are you having second thoughts?"

They are finally going to go public with their relationship after nearly five years of hiding it from the press tomorrow (or is it later today now…?). Harry would be lying if he says he isn't a little nervous about the media firestorm that will occur after the announcement, for Draco's sake. But there are no regrets, none at all. It's about time, really.

"No," Harry says. "Are you?"

"No," Draco pauses, raising an eyebrow. "Then, what _are _you thinking about?"

"Well," Harry hesitates. "I was thinking about when this," he makes a vague hand gesture, "all started. I realized that I have no idea. So, I'm trying to figure it out."

"Did you come up with an answer?"

"No," Harry replies. Then, he has an idea. "Do _you _know?"

Draco smiles. "Of course not," he says. "Such things are gradual." He yawns and rests his head against Harry's shoulder. From shoulder to ankle, their skin touches. "I, for one, did not wake up one morning and think, 'Well, _goodness_, I do _love_ Harry Potter! And I would quite like to _shag _him as well! Well, now, time for Potions!'"

Harry chuckles. "Me neither. I do though."

"As do I," Draco says simply. "But does it really matter _how_ it happened, as long as it _did?_"

Harry bends his head down and kisses him lightly on the lips. "No, I don't reckon it does."

"Good," Draco says. "Then, let's go back to sleep, shall we? I need my beauty rest."

Draco flops back down on the bed and Harry follows him. They curl into each other's arms, closing the distance between them. They shut their eyes, softly smiling. Warm and loved, they quickly fall asleep.

_No, I reckon it doesn't matter._


End file.
